


Don't Even Need To Touch Me

by ToAStranger



Series: Giving Myself to You (Prompt Fills) [40]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Dirty Talk, M/M, Rutting, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3726772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles meets the owner of his favorite club. </p><p>- - - </p><p>Prompt fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Even Need To Touch Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDamnRiddler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDamnRiddler/gifts).



> Prompt fill-- unedited and unbeta'd. 
> 
> \- - -   
> Prompt: Stiles thinks that Deucalion/Peter's voice is so hot that he could probably come just from hearing it. He probably shouldn't have said that out loud because the wolf takes it as a personal challenge.

Stiles is more than a little bit tipsy.  He hasn’t quite gotten to the point of falling over, but every time he moves, the world sways with him.  There’s a samba dancing in his veins, all heat and liquor.  He smiles dopily at one of the bartenders—the twins used to his company, to his patronage—and they slide him another drink.  It’s fruity, so sweet you can barely taste the alcohol, and Stiles raises it in thanks.

Lips groping for his straw, Stiles leans clumsily back against the counter with a crooked, pleased little smile.  His head bobs as he wraps he slurps down his drink, bass thick and body unable to resist movement.  He’s halfway through his glass when someone sidles up next to him.  Glancing over, Stiles peers at him over the rim of his glass, brows up nearly to his hairline.

“Hi,” he chirps.

The man looks over at him, smile slow, before nodding his head.  “Hello.”

“Come here often?” Stiles asks. 

“Considering I own the place, yes.”

“Oh,” Stiles brightens, twisting closer, all limbs.  “Duke, right?”

“Yes,” he says with a soft chuckle, turning to face Stiles more fully.  “Though, I usually insist people call me by my given name.”

“Which is?”

“Deucalion,” he says.

Stiles hums.  “Deucalion.  That’s a miniature mouthful.”

“What’s your name?” Deucalion asks, low and warm, leaning in so that he doesn’t have to raise his voice.

It makes Stiles shiver.

“Stiles,” he says, offering a hand. 

“Stiles?” Deucalion’s brow lifts.

“It’s a nickname,” Stiles nods solemnly.  “My real name is even more of a mouthful than yours.”

Deucalion gives a little considering hum.  His eyes, blue refracting green in the dim and flashing lights of the bar, drift down over Stiles. 

A different kind of heat coils in Stiles’ belly.  It is an aching kind, sort of pulsing just below his navel, and Stiles recognizes it as longing.  He clears his throat, takes another long sip from his cup, and feels his face go hot when Deucalion smiles with teeth that look like they belong digging into Stiles’ skin.  He glances back out at the mess of people dancing and laughing and moving in the darkness of the club. 

He thinks, perhaps, he should be out there too.  Not here, talking to a man that looks like he could make Stiles jizz his pants with nothing but a well-placed squeeze. 

When Deucalion leans in, lips brushing Stiles’ ear, Stiles bites down on the inside of his own cheek hard.  It doesn’t stop him from jumping slightly when he feels Deucalion brush the backs of his knuckles against Stiles’ hip, nor does it stop him from wanting to squirm out of his own skin.

“Would you like to dance, Stiles?” he asks.

“I, uh…” Stiles pauses, looks over at him, and frowns.  “With who?”

“With me,” Deucalion says, smile still sharp.

Setting his drink aside, Stiles nods.  “Sure.  Yeah.”

Deucalion takes his hand and guides him out onto the floor after a gesture to the twins behind the bar.  Over his shoulder, Stiles sees them nod before taking his drink off the bar top and busying themselves with other customers.

The hand at Stiles’ lower back feels like it might brand him through his shirt.  He shivers when it moves, after they’re pressed closer, not much space to leave room between each other out on the dance floor.  They fall into place like they might be made to fit together, Stiles’ chest flush with Deucalion’s as an arm wraps tight around his waist.  Stiles fumbles a bit, but instinct overrides nerve thanks to the alcohol dulling his usual responses—the ones that might have him stammering, stuttering, and scampering off.

Curling his own fingers into the collar of Deucalion’s button up, he glances up timidly through thick lashes, and Deucalion gives him a slow smile.  They find a beat together, hips rocking, rolling with the _thud_ of the music, vibrating Stiles’ bones until there is nothing but the rhythm of their movement rattling around in his skull.  The music shifts, slowing to something that is much more sultry, and the people around them ease to accommodate it.  Stiles feels the tempo they’ve set follow suit.

Deucalion’s thigh presses between Stiles’ legs.  Breath hitching, Stiles stiffens a moment and then goes liquid pliant.  The heat in him turns over, stoking fire, each slow touch Deucalion leaves on him like kindling.  A hand slides up the arc of Stiles’ spine, stopping to rest between his shoulder blades, and Stiles shudders heavily.  His own hands ease up, one curling behind Deucalion’s neck and the other practically clutching at his shirt sleeve.  Deucalion leans in as Stiles cants his head over, spark flaring between them as Deucalion drags his lips slowly up the line of Stiles’ jaw.  It is not quite a kiss, but a promise of one.  Like Deucalion is sampling him.

Eye fluttering shut, Stiles tilts his head over more.  Deucalion rumbles out a pleased sound that Stiles feels more than he hears—ears too full with the noise around them, slow but heavy beat still dictating the way their bodies press and move together.  It is all tease, all heat, and Stiles quivers at the hot ghost of Deucalion’s breath down his neck, across his collar, then back up until it is just caressing the shell of his ear.

“I’ve seen you here a few times,” Deucalion says, not loud but loud enough for Stiles to hear.  “You always leave alone.”

Stiles nods, swallows, but doesn’t say anything.

“It’s a pity,” Deucalion adds, hand at Stiles’ lower back sinking lower to tug him close—until they are perfectly flush with one another.  “I’m positive you’d make a lovely bedmate.”

Stiles huffs out a breathy laugh.  “ _God_.  I swear, you could make me come with just your voice.”

Friction sparks up Stiles’ spine.  Deucalion urges Stiles’ hips forward again, and _fuck_ he’s _hard_.  Erect in his jeans and Deucalion is encouraging him to rut against his hip in agonizingly slow movements.  He moans quietly, cheeks going flush.

“Would you like me to try?” Deucalion asks before pressing a smug little smile bust beneath Stiles’ ear and mouthing all the way down to the crook of his shoulder.  

Stiles lets out another quiet sound.  No one around them can hear it, and something about that makes him feel like crawling out of his own skin.  Sends a thrill jolting through him, knowing that this man is coaxing him into such a lewd act while their surrounded by patrons of his own club.  It is a dark kind of desire to see it to completion. 

He nods, grinding a bit harder, feeling Deucalion’s chuckle thrum across his shoulders.  “Have you done this before?”

“No,” Deucalion confesses.  “Usually I’d invite you up to my loft first.”

“Are you still going to?” Stiles asks.

“Yes,” Deucalion tells him, mouth pressed to Stiles’ ear again, and Stiles digs blunt nails into the back of Deucalion’s neck as he talks, low and sweet, to him.  “But I think I’d like to get you off here first.  Would you like that, Stiles?”

“Yes,” Stiles says in a whisper, and groans as teeth scrape over his skin.

His hips stutter.  Deucalion’s hand curves over the swell of his ass and sets a stupidly easy pace.  Stiles bites down on the inside of his cheek and turns his face to press against the side of Deucalion’s neck.

“Would you like to hear how I’ll have you?” Deucalion asks, dark with promise.  “How good I’ll make it for you?”

Stiles nods again, grip going tight over Deucalion’s bicep as pleasure threads through him.  It leaves him feeling heavy but frantic, like a drug.

“Think I’ll take my time,” Deucalion muses, and Stiles can hear the self-satisfaction there.  “Work you up until you’re on the brink again.  Give you time to catch your breath a little, use my fingers to slick you up and prepare you.  Keep you on the edge for hours.”

Stiles whines, and tries to rut a bit faster.  Deucalion stills his hips with two firm hands. 

“Easy now, love.” He chides, easing him back into the steady motion.  “Would you like to know what I’d to you after that?  After you’re ready, after you’ve been begging for it for so long you can’t remember when you started?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles says.

“Then I’ll fuck you,” Deucalion mutters.  “And as I slide home into the tight heat of your body, you’ll come for me.  Just like that, just my cock in you, filling you up.”

Stiles hiccups a little sound, gasping as one of Deucalion’s hands tangle into his hair in order to angle his head back.  They kiss, long and slow, and Stiles’ orgasm crests over him as Deucalion’s tongue tangles with his.  He shudders through it, rocking and rutting until he’s twitching. 

The tips of his ears are pink when they break apart.  Deucalion looks satisfied, hand curved over the back of Stiles’ head, thumb brushing just under his ear as he gives him another one of those slow smiles.  Stiles swallows, heart still thudding heavily in his chest, and he licks his lips—feeling delighted when Deucalion’s eyes track the motion. 

“Weren’t you going to invite me to your room?” Stiles asks.

Deucalion grins, all teeth, and Stiles already feels heat coiling in him again.  “Stiles, would you like to come up to my loft?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Stiles breathes.

He never goes back to the bar for his drink.


End file.
